


Countdown

by cydonic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cydonic/pseuds/cydonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The six steps of life and death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countdown

_i. take the stairs._

**three at a time, though make no sound. you are unknown, unheard, unseen, as you slip into the fifth level room. the window faces east, and you wait for the sunrise to bring the mark from his expensive hotel room out onto the streets.**  
  
at a run, heart leaping as one disappears from beneath you. the force of your body drives you face-first into the wooden stairs. the steps, varnish marred with scratches from a lifetime of poor treatment rushes up to meet you. you cry out, though the sound is ripped from you in a moment of surprise, not weakness, and passes quickly.   
  
your mother is on the ground floor preparing your dinner, father at work (as he always is). she would have done nothing to stem your tears had you cried, and would have ignored any complaint. your father frowns upon all weakness, and there is no question he would find out about you crying like a baby over some little trip.  
  
it is not these factors that inspire you to stay strong, though. the pain is felt, but not with fear - with indifference. you climb up the stairs, slower now, before taking a seat at the very top. you probe your bruising shin with your fingers; taste the blood inside your mouth.  
  
you file these sensations away as a life lesson: this is what happens when you make mistakes.

_ii. kneel down._

**on the ground, and cast your eyes to the scene below. the sky is streaked with the warm reds and pinks of the dawn, quickly approaching, though the streetlights provide the most of the illumination. from here you can see clearly a panorama of the street - and the exact location you will strike.**  
  
in the church, feeling the heavy weight of everyone else in the church giving thanks to the lord and confiding in him the troubles they have. you have nothing to say - no grace, nor requests. you kneel silently and wait for the session to end.  
  
your parents, though at most times more interested than their own lives than that of their son, are willing - and able - to afford you a good education at a religious boarding school several hours from their own home. the choice of institute is deliberate: they do not have to visit you on the weekends, claiming excuse of too long a journey, and they have hopes that someone else will make you into a model citizen.  
  
with no particularly strong connections to your family, this is a suitable arrangement.  
  
the world of schooling is somewhat dull to you. the work, on whole, is easily learned and thus easily ignored. religious studies are ones you would much rather do without, but you do not actively protest.   
  
the only real moment of interest for you is when one boy, in his final year and captain of the wrestling team, claims himself to be the strongest fighter in the entire county. naturally you scoff and smile and make eye contact - a challenge, though not so far as to shout it in front of the student body - and he challenges you to prove him wrong.  
  
you have no formal training in combat, beyond what rough play you completed (generally alone) as a child, and what the school offers by way of physical education. it makes no difference and the boy is unconscious within a minute and a half.  
  
some people have natural talents.

_iii. assemble_

**your weapon piece by piece. it is a process done enough that there is no thought given to it, as everything slides into place with a satisfying, muted click.**  
  
in the yard, surrounded by those your age and higher seeking glory. sixteen is the minimal entrance age for the army, and as soon as you hit that you have enlisted. there is little more in the world that fascinates you - no college degree would satisfy the desire in you for something more, nor could any menial trade work. the career advisers, though seeking to improve their own standing by sending you to a prestigious university, eventually concede that the military might be the best bet.  
  
here you make an effort to learn. it comes naturally: the assembly of weapons, the procedures of hand-to-hand combat, the obstacle course they have laid out for your fitness.   
  
everything comes to you as easily as breathing - including combat.  
  
you are deployed at eighteen to persia. the gulf war begins, and they need their best men on the field. it just so happens that they consider you a part of that collection.  
  
it’s the middle of the day and the sun bears down like what the fires of hell are described as in class. you do not believe in the bible, but it’s impossible to ignore the heat burning through the thin uniform you wear. you have been on the ground for hours now, moving your toes at intervals to ensure their continued use.  
  
it’s sudden - they make a move, charge forward, you can see them all. your eyes move rapidly, and then you fire, striking the highest ranking officer you could see at such a distance.   
  
the bullet enters his skull cleanly and his brains spread out in the desert sand. you are not happy - nor are you sad. you do your job, and it’s satisfying.

_iv. aim._

**down the sights, waiting patiently for your oblivious prey to step into them. you do not slack, do not get comfortable (perhaps that is the benefit in lying down on an abandoned desk), because you never know when they might be just left of where you expect.**  
  
for the top, they would say. you are indifferent. in the end, though, it is a rather illustrious career you go on to have. it typically takes two decades for a serviceman to make it to colonel - it takes you twelve. you prove your worth to the british army in any way you can, enjoying the opportunity to do something more exciting than the norm. you are good at what you do, and you know it, but no one would dare call you prideful.   
  
you are capable of forming a strategy on the spot, and you waste no time with words that will not save lives (or end them, depending on your perspective). you are appreciated - you bring the honour to your family you know they did not fully expect, and it’s a living.  
  
you would not go so far as to say you are a good person, though. simply because you fight for one side does not make you inherently better than anyone else, and it’s a realistic man who can see that. no matter what you do, you’re killing other people.  
  
mostly those on the other side.  
  
the one time you fire a man on your own side, there’s a giant uproar. it’s in the heart of the war in afghanistan, and get wind of several men attempting to sabotage your efforts. when verbal confrontation turns to physical, you protect yourself.  
  
he does not survive, and the others are not much better off.  
  
you do not leave the experience without wounds of your own. one man strikes from behind with a knife, leaving a mark from the rough line of your jaw down to the junction of neck and shoulder. the pain is bothersome only because it means you need medical attention, and right now you have a lot of paperwork to handle with this newly deceased soldier.  
  
it is a long process, but in the end you are forced into retirement. no dishonourable discharge, as the lines are blurred, but they cannot allow you to remain in service.  
  
twenty years and you leave the armed forces. the stars on your shoulder no longer have meaning, and you drift.

_v. wait._

**for the target to appear. just lay and wait. there is no set time they will step out of their hotel, and so you cannot afford to look away. humans are ridiculous creatures - never sticking to any schedules. you just wait.**  
  
and see what becomes of your life. you have an interesting skill-set and what could be referred to as a taste for blood.  
  
there are jobs that suit you, here and there, though you are careful not to get too tangled up in any particular group or gang. you do the work, collect the money, move on.   
  
this life is enjoyable. moreso than the military had been. on the streets of london there is no good or bad side. there is some kind of sick delight in the morality of it all, and you find yourself enjoying that work.  
  
coupled with your army savings and money for services rendered, you have a home in central london. sometimes you are there, and many times you are not. many times you are found crouching on a rooftop or in a window, waiting to complete your task.  
  
it is a year after your retirement that you are approached by a man who seems rather interested in your aforementioned skills.  
  
you are reluctant - being tied down, something we were now avoiding - but he makes a good deal.  
  
you agree, and it’s like being in the battlefield again.

_vi. fire._

**Author's Note:**

> from a roleplay application. my personal thoughts on sebastian moran.


End file.
